Circle of Reign

by Jacob Cooper

  Trust yourself, he heard Thannuel’s words play in his head. A memory of coarse black sand came to his mind. Enemies on all sides, Thannuel barely conscious on his back. Roan’s confidence had faltered on those dark shores and his will to fight had fled. He had given up, and somehow Thannuel, gravely injured, could feel it.

  I trust you, Antious. Trust yourself. You will find a way. He did find a way; he and Thannuel miraculously survived and the Orsarian Dark Marauders were defeated. But his friend was not with him now as he was then. Roan was less certain he would find a way through this time, but the military discipline within him kept him focused.

  It seems that was an entirely different age, General Roan thought.

  The invading army yelled their battle cry and he heard their charge. They came at full sprint toward the Arlethian camp. The general knew High Lord Marshal Tulley. The man was not an ignoramus, but this move seemed folly to him. Perhaps Banner was right, that patience would unnerve the enemy into a foolish move that would give them the advantage. He prayed this was true.

  It was not long before Senthary soldiers flooded the area below him, running past his position directly for Colonel Bohdin and his men. To the enemy, especially in the dark, it would be nearly impossible to tell the number of Arlethian soldiers that faced them. They would likely assume that the whole of their army in this area would be present as a unified body. Roan was right.

  Another loud cry echoed through the forest as the Senthary were given orders to focus their attack on the force that stood in front of them. Colonel Bohdin’s men answered the battle cry with one of their own, challenging the invaders. This seemed to draw in the Senthary infantry even more forcefully. The two sides collided.

  Roan saw Bohdin’s detachment turn into a blur of metal, flesh and blood as they responded with inhuman speed to their attackers. The wails of men began to sound forth as the Senthary began to be cut down. The speed of the wood-dwellers and their agility among the trees aided them greatly. As the vibrations of the battle swelled, they became too confusing for Roan to take in. He broke the connection with the tree he was anchored to, taking his palm away from the bark. The horde of Senthary kept piling in below him, pushing against their own forward forces and anxiously seeking an opportunity to find the foe. He estimated between seven and eight thousand were now below him. Suddenly, he saw Colonel Bohdin and his men retreat, crying out in fear as if in a rout. The Senthary army responded with increased vigor and let out a cry to pursue. General Roan smiled. After a few more moments, he judged the total count of enemies below to have swelled to more than twenty thousand.

  The tumult below them covered the sound of thirteen thousand Arlethian warriors unsheathing their blades in their elevated positions. With no audible command, Roan silently dropped from his perch onto an unsuspecting target below. The man died instantly as Roan’s sword pierced him behind his collarbone and continued down into his torso. His men followed. Each struck an enemy combatant, killed him, and then just as quickly and stealthily, retreated back up the trees. In less time than it took for most men to tie their boots, their enemy’s numbers were reduced by thirteen thousand.

  “The trees!” came a shout from a Senthary soldier. Others quickly took up the shout and looked upward just as a second aerial attack was launched. The Senthary, this time slightly better prepared, raised shields and spears straight up to block their assailants. A few managed to impale some of the downward attacking Arlethians, but again the Senthary lost many thousands before Roan and his men retreated up the trees. Most of the Senthary forces broke off from pursuing Bohdin after finding nearly a thousand score of their fellow soldiers now dead or dying within moments. They began to form a defensive posture against the aerial Arlethians when a new sound came from their forward-most soldiers. Safely out of reach from the Senthary, Roan again smiled. Bohdin ceased his feigned retreat and pressed into the fray, calling the enemy’s attention back to the ground assault. The soldiers below him were confused, not knowing where to defend or where to attack. They were vacillating from upward defending stances to facing west where the cries of death and agony were coming from. Confusion was taking its hold upon the Sentharian soldiers. General Roan again released himself and sailed downward.

  Removed from the epicenter of the battle, Lord Therrium sat with Alrikk, tense. He wondered aloud if he should join the battle, here on the outskirts of the fighting, but Alrikk forbade it. Though the Prime Lord of the West was a wood-dweller and therefore faster and more nimble than the army of Senthary below, his best weapon was his mind, not his skill with steel. He knew it, and knew that Alrikk knew it. The young warrior went into immediate defense mode when the battle broke out, his training taking over. He was a hold guard, the only surviving one from the attack that had started this conflict in which they were now engaged, aside from Aiden. But the former master of the hold guard had begged his leave for some purpose that remained unknown. How Lord Therrium wished Aiden were here now. When danger presented itself, a hold guard’s first priority was the Prime Lord’s protection, not the battle itself. A soldier, on the other hand, would advance into the fight and engage the enemy.

  Banner held his sword in his left hand while his right hand was flush against the light brown bark of the Triarch upon which he sat. Alrikk gripped a small Triarch leafling against the hilt of his sword as he held it firmly. Both were listening intently through the forest for details and reports that could not be gained by auditory efforts alone. The sheer concentration it took to filter the immense amount of vibrations surging through the forest was extremely taxing. Lord Therrium rotated his focus on different areas of the conflict in order not to become overwhelmed.

  “Our ground forces have re-engaged,” he announced.

  “I feel it as well,” Alrikk said. “A new surge of soldiers is approaching from the east, reinforcements.” Beads of sweat broke out on the back of Alrikk’s neck as he concentrated. Therrium looked down as the reinforcements passed under them, sprinting in loose formation to the battle. The initial forces that were sent in parted and made way for this new squad of a thousand or so.

  “Short archers,” Therrium whispered. “A little earlier than anticipated but relatively on schedule.”

  “On schedule?” Alrikk asked. No sooner had he said this than the archers notched arrows to their bows, two on each string. They loosed them into the air nearly straight up. Much of the moonlight was blocked from reaching below the canopy of foliage, but the density of the trees and the wood-dwellers plunging from them made the probability of scoring a hit much greater despite lack of clear vision in the night.

  Alrikk gasped in frustration as he felt hundreds of his people cry out in pain and fall to the ground from above. Still, the casualties were relatively light in comparison to the enemy’s. Most of the arrows hit harmlessly against the trees and either skidded off or embedded themselves in the bark. The Arlethian forces would have sensed the arrows and reacted quickly to move out of harm’s way, but losses were nonetheless inevitable. The aerial plunges by General Roan’s men continued, cutting down fewer enemies than before, but the lethality of these stealth attacks still proved extremely effective. The smell of so much blood in the night air began to add a metallic scent that mingled with the smell of greenery.

  “The battle is going well enough our way. They will be forced to elevate their attacks with a different approach. Prepare yourself, young Alrikk,” Lord Therrium said.

  “For what, my Lord?”

  “Smoke and ashes.”

  High Lord Marshal Tulley, leader of the Sentharian military forces, was not a happy man. Reports from the front lines were contradictory at best, unintelligible at worst. He did not underestimate his foe and had sent in forty-five thousand men as well as two thousand archers. Well over half the Realm’s forces in this part of the war effort. Appointed as High Lord Marshal for this conflict, he chose to be at this location because he knew Lord Banner Therrium would be here as well. And, of course, General Roan. He coul
d not make one misstep in his planning or execution, but this was not his plan that he was executing. The audacity that High Duke Wellyn had displayed by giving battlefield orders and forcing his men into action was maddening, and was leading to a potential travesty. He, as High Lord Marshal, would bear the complete blame as well, should the attack fail. Adding to the stress of the situation were the enigmatic men with shorn heads standing next to him. The one who bore him the message would visibly shake from time to time and appeared to be in pain or…was it excitement? No normal or sane person thirsted for war and bloodshed.

  “Siege engines to the front!” a Field Marshal bellowed. Twenty-seven large war machines with catapult arms set on wooden wheels were drawn slowly to the front lines by yokes of oxen. The earth broke beneath the weight of the catapults as they were slogged forward, adding to the strain on the beasts of burden. Soldiers gathered by the score behind the contraptions and pushed, slipping on the grass and mud.

  An Infantry Marshal approached in sprint, nearly tripping over himself and spoke with concern. “Lord Marshal, our men are still behind enemy lines. We must pull them back first!”

  “There’s no time,” Tulley answered. “Their aim will be high and the ordnance will have minimal effect on the ground. Casualties should be kept to a minimum.”

  “But—” the Infantry Marshal began but was cut off.

  “You are dismissed, soldier!” Tulley snapped. The young officer saluted and sprinted back to his post.

  Tulley heard a curious sound beside him and turned away from watching the droll progress of his artillery. The robe-clad man next to him was grinding his teeth violently and inhaling heavily salivated breaths. A high whine followed, which descended in pitch to a low growl. The other four men seemed not to notice, or perhaps care. Tulley backed away several steps. The man closed his eyes, inhaled slowly for several moments and seemed to regain a modicum of control.

  “Burning Heavens man, are you well?” Tulley asked hesitantly.

  “It is of no concern to you,” came the rebuff. “The time has come.”

  Tulley nodded. “Perhaps it has.” He retrieved the message scroll delivered to him earlier that was pinned under his belt and opened it. He raised his eyes to look over the parchment at the man and then back down again at the message.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” Tulley said, delaying. “What will this accomplish?”

  “Victory,” was the only response.

  “Fire!” they heard a Field Marshal command. Hatchets cut short ropes and released the arms of the coiled siege weapons, which flung large rounded projectiles of thick twigs, earth, pitch and fire. The night sky turned orange as the burning ordnance sailed overhead. It landed against the trees approximately thirty feet high. Shooting the ordnance above the height of the trees was impossible so the catapults had to be aimed through clearings as carefully as possible with the hope that the burning projectiles would penetrate deep into the forest before striking a tree and exploding. If it did not find a tree and fell to the earth, the Sentharian forces would take the punishment meant for the Arlethian soldiers. It was a risk of war. Shouts were heard calling for adjusted trajectory of the catapults.

  “Victory?” Tulley asked, searching for more insight. He did not receive a response. Letting free a deep breath and raising the parchment to eye level he said, “Very well.” Then, reading from the parchment, he said, “Acting as a duly appointed agent of High Duke Emeron Wellyn, he who holds the Urlenthi, the Stone of Orlack, I Charge you with Prime Lord Banner Therrium and all who stand to deter you from him.”

  Finished, he lowered the message and viewed the man, this strange courier that stood beside him. He and his companions threw their heads back and growled toward the sky as if beasts in human skin. Throwing off his robe revealed a thick body covered only by a loincloth. The man’s body seemed to become bulkier and muscles appeared from where there had been none discernible just a moment before. All over his skin were tattoos of no color, more like scars carved into specific designs. They were symbols of some create, Tulley could discern, but of what he could not tell. The beast of a man let loose a menacing laugh through a shudder that bespoke a predatory intent. High Lord Marshal Tulley recoiled and again stepped back. The other four retained their clothing and darted off at a supernatural speed.

  “No, wait,” Tulley said, placing a hand on the all but naked man’s shoulder just as he started to run toward the forest, restraining him. He was rewarded with a look that sent shivers through his body. “What are you?”

  “I, High Lord Marshal, am a Helsyan. I share this with you because you will be able to do nothing with this knowledge.” The Helsyan looked down at the hand on his shoulder that stopped his advance. “That is most unfortunate for you, I’m afraid.”

  Fire rained around General Roan and his men. It was not unexpected, but made the strategy that he and Lord Therrium had devised treacherous for his men to continue. The spheres of fire that burst against the trees were easy to spot and avoid for his wood-dwellers, but the splashes of flames and embers that exploded outward once the spheres impacted were more perilous. Dozens of his men were scorched from the constant barrage, some falling to the ground from their elevated stations, dead and smoldering. They had managed to cut down the enemy by a large number, likely near double their own numbers, but they were still outnumbered three to one. The advantage was definitely on their side despite this fact, especially as the battle was being waged in the forest. However, trees were burning and his men had begun to waver in confusion under the now constant bombardment, as their habitat in this part of Arlethia was becoming an inferno. The fires would not spread throughout the land due to the rains that were common in the Dimming Season but would no doubt burn for days before being snuffed out. However, the smoke itself, caught in the canopy not far above them, was perhaps more lethal than the fire in their current positions. No, they could not continue their attacks from above.

  General Roan could either command his men to climb, through the smoke and the canopy to the trees above where fresh air would be found but flames would eventually reach, or fall to the battle below. He heard snapping and popping sounds coming from the tree where he perched and turned to see boiling sap bubbling through the tree’s bark. The smell was not unlike charred bread.

  “Release!” Roan commanded. Thousands of Arlethian soldiers let themselves fall through the smoky air to the field of carnage below them.

  “Press through!” he yelled. “Rally toward Bohdin!” He had dropped with his men into the center of a confused Sentharian battalion and did not hesitate in his attacks. While fighting his way westward, cutting down those in his path, a smear of burning pitch fell on his left shoulder from above and clung to his armor. The metal blackened from the burning slime and the fire itself, but General Roan paid it no mind. He saw others, both Senthary and Arlethian, screaming and running while being consumed in robes of orange and yellow. He wondered at the ruthlessness of the Sentharian commanders, to use weaponry against an enemy that would punish their own soldiers at the same time. The brutality of it surprised him, but he realized it should not have, not after what the High Duke had done in betraying his own subjects when he attacked Therrium’s hold.

  Girded in flaming armor, he turned to face four soldiers, a spearman, two axemen and one with a sword. They flinched at seeing Roan and took a step back.

  They are so young, he thought. It was part of war. The young died, the old mourned. Fear swept across the soldiers’ faces as they huddled together in a defensive posture.

  What are they doing? he wondered. Why aren’t they attacking? The small group took another step back. Perhaps the reality of battle had seized them, the terror of it not allowing them to do anything but cower. Something caught in the middle-aged general as he faced them. Pity? Mercy? Weakness? Whatever it was, he was about to admonish them to flee when two of his men overcame them from behind and cut them down before any of the Sentharians could register what was happening.
It was efficient and lethal, and the two Arlethian warriors were on to their next prey before many moments could be counted.

  They were just boys, not much older than I was in my first battle, just following orders, Roan thought. Just as my men are following orders. My orders. He stared at the dead Sentharian soldiers, at their lethal wounds, and felt a tightening in his chest. The old wound that had nearly ended him on his right breast radiated pain.

  It did end me, actually, he reminded himself. Thannuel would not be here to steal him back from Death’s grasp this time. They had each saved each other of the black sands of Pearl Island during the final days of the Orsarian War.

  The metal of his armor had heated to a point that started to burn his upper back and singe his hair. He released the light armor plating that protected his torso and backside and it fell to the forest floor. Pine needles and dead leaves from the season began to catch fire under the armor before quickly dying out, causing more smoke than flame.

  General Roan was motionless for a few brief moments in the middle of battle before coming to himself again. His men needed him, needed his direction. They were still vastly outnumbered and caught in a most dangerous circumstance. He suppressed his inhibitions and resumed his attacks, pressing ever westward. Hordes of Senthary were still pouring in from the east, appearing to be an ocean of swords, spears, and axes. And then a thought occurred to him, an idea of distraction—or making use of the current battle as a distraction.

  He grabbed a young wood-dweller with a lieutenant’s insignia on his breastplate, heavily swathed in carnage. He had a gash across his left cheek that had barely missed his eye.

  Fherva, Roan remembered, the same who had shown him and Lord Therrium that profane stone road that had lead into Hold Therrium. It seemed a different age, that first battle of this war where only Master Aiden and Alrikk had survived, protecting Therrium. Roan briefly wondered where Therrium was in this chaos, praying Alrikk had removed the prime lord far from the battle.